


Healing

by adiwriting



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, post 4x09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adiwriting/pseuds/adiwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Felicity hears gunshots, she has a panic attack. Oliver has some experience with that.<br/>Post 4x09 fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing

“I don’t want to talk,” she says as she hears the bathroom door open. About a minute later, she feels the cool breeze hit her skin as the shower curtain is pulled back and Oliver climbs in. 

“I get that,” he says moving to take the shampoo bottle out of her hands. She lets him. It’s not that she can’t wash her own hair — she can. It’s just so much easier to let him do it while she’s still not 100%. 

He turns her around so that her back is to him and begins lathering up her hair. His hands massage her scalp, working the shampoo in while also removing some of the tension in her body. His hands feel absolutely heavenly. When he finishes, he pulls the shower head off the wall and begins rinsing out her hair, careful not to get any in her eyes. 

“We should talk about it,” he says, placing a gentle kiss to her shoulder as he moves the shower head back onto it’s stand and grabs her conditioner. 

She groans. She knew it was too good to be true; that he wouldn’t just let it go. The thing is, she genuinely doesn’t want to talk. She’s not sure she can without breaking down again, and that’s the last thing she wants him to see. 

“Do we have to?”

“You had a panic attack,” he says, as if she needs the reminder. 

She remembers it. Crystal clear. Well maybe not crystal clear, because the entire memory of the attack is a bit foggy — but she does remember coming to under her desk, and pulling herself together just as Oliver came running into the lair, the rest of the team hot on his heels. She remembers the look of concern on his face that let her know that her little break down wasn’t as private as she would have hoped. 

She has nothing to say. She can’t deny it like she’d like to. She can’t say she’s fine, because he wouldn’t believe it. 

“It happens to everyone,” he tries to reassure her. 

She scoffs. “It doesn’t happen to you. Or Digg. Or even Thea or Gorgeous Laurel…”

“Don’t goad me into a fight about my ex in order to distract from what happened tonight,” he says. “I’m worried about you.” 

“Sorry,” she says with a sigh. 

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, while he carefully works the conditioner all the way through her hair, remembering to clip it up when he’s done, so it can soak in — just like she’s taught him. 

Next, he reaches around her to grab the shower gel, warming it up in his hands before moving to lather her back. His hands knead her muscles where they always knot up after hours in front of her computer. He’s always so good at taking care of her. He’s such a physical guy, and she doesn’t even mean that sexually. He is constantly reassuring her, making sure she feels loved and cherished through little touches here and there. It’s something she’d known about him even before they’d starting dating. Even as a friend, he’d always been incredibly tactile. 

Now though, relaxing into his touch feels dangerous. She’s already too raw — too exposed from earlier. She’s been holding so much in ever since that night, and now that it’s forcing it’s way out, she’s worried about what he might see. 

“You should quit your day job and do this professionally,” she says. 

“You always say that.” She can hear the fondness in his voice even past all the concern he’s emitting. 

His hands manage to find a particularly tight spot on her lower back and she has to bite back a moan. Her mother is still staying across the hall from them, and she really doesn’t want to deal with the knowing looks and teasing in the morning. Felicity would never be able to convince her that they weren’t doing what her mother would think they were doing. 

“Just because you’ve never seen any of us have one, doesn’t mean we haven’t,” he says, bringing her back to the topic at hand. 

“Oliver Queen has panic attacks?” she asks, turning around so that he can clean the rest of her. 

She expects a glib response. She expects him to make a vague comment about his time on the island and shrug it off like it’s nothing. What she doesn’t expect is for him to make eye contact with her and keep it. For him to respond without a hint of self-deprecation. 

“Often,” he says. 

“Oliver…” she starts to say, but trails off when she realizes that she’s at a loss for words. 

It’s honestly a first. She always knows what to say to him. She’s dealt with him enough to know how to bring him out of a bad mood; How to restore confidence when he’s feeling weak; To bring him into the light, when he tries to slip into the darkness. Yet, she doesn’t know what to say, because she’s never considered that this was even an option. 

Now that he says it though, it makes complete sense. She’s thought that he suffers from PTSD before. That much is obvious anytime a sharp noise catches them off guard and he shoves her to the ground; a knife in his hand faster than she can blink. Anytime he suffers from a nightmare. She never thought of the possibility of him having panic attacks, though. She feels naïve. 

“It happened a few times when I was on the island,” he explains while he washes her off, distracting himself, as he often does, whenever he’s talking about something he doesn’t like to think about. “Not a lot, as most of the time I was too busy fighting for my life to ever stop long enough to think about everything. It mostly happened the first year or so I was back.” 

“When you were alone,” she says, knowingly.

He nods, crouching down so that he can wash her legs, careful to massage her sore muscles as he does. Physical therapy has not been kind to her. “Bringing you and John on really helped.” 

“I wish I’d known you better back then,” she says. “I hate thinking about how hard things were for you.” 

“You know me now.” He smiles up at her, that special smile that she’s sure only she gets to see. It makes the darkness that her world has become lately just a little bit brighter. They share a silent moment before Oliver kisses her thigh lovingly and stands back up to rinse her off. 

“You’re not immune to the tragedies that this life brings,” he says. “As much as that kills me. That means you’re going to stumble. It doesn’t mean you have to fall. I won’t let that happen.” 

“We were in the middle of a mission,” she argues, still hating herself for what she’d allowed to happen that evening. 

They’d been out on a mission, trying to hunt down some new player that had started to take over in Darhk’s ominous absence — trying to figure out his connection to Darhk and what his play was. She’d been back in the lair, talking them through rebooting the building’s security system so that nobody would know they’d been there. Then suddenly, she’d heard gunfire on their end. She doesn’t quite know what she did next, or how long she’d been out of it before coming to. It all feels like a fog that could have been mere minutes or several hours. All she knows for sure is that she’d _completely_ panicked for no reason at all. The lair was safe. She’d been completely safe. They’d been the one’s in danger. Yet, none of them had panicked. 

“You heard the guns,” he says, tracing the two scars on her stomach: one from the bullet hole and one from the surgery. 

“I’ve been shot before,” she says, earning her a glare. 

“I don’t need to be reminded.” 

“It’s hardly the first time I’ve heard gunshots over the coms.” 

“First time since the shooting,” he says with a pointed look. 

“I’m fine,” she says, 

“So you keep telling everyone… Yet, here we are.” 

She rolls her eyes and pulls her hair out of the clip to wash out the conditioner. She just wants to finish her shower and go to sleep. She’s not tired, but she’ll lay there and pretend to sleep if it means they can stop having this conversation. She’s terrified about where it will lead them. She knows she’s only ever a breath away from Oliver deciding she’s better off without him. While she’s prepared for that inevitability… And the democracy that Team Arrow has become will protect her position on the team whether he likes it or not… She’s too emotionally drained to fight that battle anytime soon. 

“Felicity…” 

“No,” she says, her voice betraying her by cracking, showing how weak she really feels in this moment. “I’m fine. It was hardly the first time I’d faced death.” 

“That was different.” 

“How?” she argues. 

“You had your mask on.” 

“What?”

“You wear a mask when we go to battle, just like the rest of us,” he explains. 

She’s about to argue when he holds his hands up for her to let him talk. 

“It’s not visible to most people, but it’s there,” he continues. “You put up your guard every time we enter a mission. That mask keeps you safe. It helps you deal with the horrible things that happen to us on a weekly basis. You’re aware of how dangerous it is to be Felicity Smoak, partner to the Green Arrow. You weren’t prepared for Felicity Smoak, girlfriend to Oliver Queen, being attacked. Then, in a single night, you were kidnapped from a holiday party and almost killed in a gas chamber. Not because of your nighttime activities taking down Darhk, but your daytime ones, being a loved one to the defiant mayoral candidate.” 

Throughout his entire explanation, she remains quiet, processing his words and trying to find the truth in them. Looking for the reason why this time — of all the hard times they’ve had — seems to be hitting her so much worse than normal. 

“Then,” he continues. “After being so brave and surviving all of that, you assumed you were safe for the night. We all did. What was the likelihood of them retaliating so soon after? When you were shot, you were in a limo with your fiancé. You’d just been proposed to. We were ten minutes from home. Neither of us had our guard up — our masks on.” 

“I’m supposed to be strong,” she says, only realizing she’s crying when he reaches up to wipe her tears. 

Great, now she’s crying in the shower. She’s such a cliché. Her inner feminist is surely rolling her eyes at her. 

“This doesn’t make you weak,” he says, placing a kiss to her forehead before reaching around her to turn off the shower. She hadn’t realized that he’d finished washing out her hair, nor that the water had started to run cold. 

She doesn’t say anything. She just tries to let his words sink in. She still hasn’t decided if he’s right, but she knows at the very least, he believes them. He believes in her. 

He leads her out of the shower and hands her a towel. She knows the situation must be bad if he’s given her his big fluffy towel without a second thought. He protects that thing almost as religiously as he protects her. His back is to her, drying off his own body. She makes no move to do the same. She still feels too weighed down by everything to move. 

“I thought I was doing fine,” she whispers. “That if I kept one foot in front of the other, everything would get better. My body would heal and the memories would fade.” 

“Which is why I think it’s all coming to a head today,” he said. “You can’t keep that stuff bottled up without it eventually forcing it’s way out.” 

She glares at him – is he honestly going to lecture her on keeping things bottled up? 

He doesn’t respond, but gives her a pointed look, letting her know that he understands the irony of his statement. 

Once he’s dried off and has his pajama pants on, he grabs the towel out of her hands and starts to dry her off, since she’s made no move to do so. 

“What if it happens again?” she asks, hating that her voice is still cracking like some helpless damsel in distress. She’s always prided herself on being anything but. 

“Then it happens again.” 

“Oliver.” 

“Felicity,” he says, using his stern voice. “You can’t rush the healing process. Everyone deals with trauma in their own way.” 

“My way sucks,” she grumbles. 

He lets out a chuckle, but she can tell he doesn’t find any of this humorous. Neither does she, really. Their lives are too dangerous to be able to afford to fall apart — even if it is just a stumble, as Oliver suggested. 

“You’re not the only one scarred by what happened,” he admits.

“Oliver…” she goes to reach out to him, but he moves out of her reach, distracting himself by hanging up the towel and moving into their bedroom to look for clothes for her. 

She follows him, not caring that her wet hair is dripping all over their wood floors. He digs through her drawers more violently than is necessary. 

“Oliver,” she says, placing a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm him. 

“You almost died,” he says without turning around to look at her. His voice is filled with emotion. 

“I know,” she says. “I was there, too.” 

“You weren’t though,” he says angrily, but she can tell the anger isn’t directed at her so she moves in closer, wrapping her arms around him from behind. 

“For days, you weren’t,” he says. “You kept getting better, only to take a turn for the worse. The doctors couldn’t say for sure if you’d make it and the nurses would barely look me in the eyes. You weren’t there and nobody could tell me if you were even coming back.” 

“I’m here now,” she says as tears fall onto his back, trying to reassure both of them. 

“I can’t lose you,” he says, gripping onto her arms. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says, a sob finally escaping after she’s fought relentlessly to hold it back. 

He turns around and pulls her into his arms, slowly rocking her back and forth. She buries herself into his shoulder. She tries to find comfort in his arms, but as safe as he makes her feel, as gentle as his touch may be, she can’t shake her memories. The sound of gunshots still rings loudly in her ears. So loudly, that she can barely hear him whispering reassurances into her ear. Her stomach aches with phantom pain. 

She can’t pull herself together anymore, like she usually can. 

She cries for what seems like hours. When she finally calms down, he’s somehow already put her into pajamas, blow dried her hair, and is cuddling her in bed. Searching her memories, she only has vague memories of how any of this happened. 

Her throat feels raw and her head feels heavy. She can only imagine what she looks like – she’s never been an attractive crier. However, Oliver’s still here, so she can’t look that terrifying. Either that, or he must really love her. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she says, looking up at him, hoping he can see how sorry she is that he had to witness that. 

“For the rest of our lives,” he says with a small smile and a kiss to her forehead. He’s trying to sound light-hearted, but she can see how hard it is for him to see her like this. He’s always called her his rock. The one to light his darkness. 

Today, she felt anything but. 

“I don’t want to be a mess like this,” she says, resting her head on his chest. “I don’t want to be the girl that falls apart when something bad happens.”

“You’ve never been that girl, and nobody thinks you are now.” 

“But what if…” she starts to argue, but he cuts her off. 

“There’s no point in worrying about what may or may not happen,” he says, rubbing her back in a way that always soothes her. “The anxiety of it will most certainly lead you to have another attack.” 

She knows he’s right. She also knows he’s probably right about the other part, too. The attack had likely happened because she’s been brushing everything under the rug, trying to seem like the shooting hadn’t phased her. She’d done exactly what she always criticizes him for doing. If she’d stop pretending and just admit how scary the entire ordeal had been, she’d probably be able to deal with it and move on. Wasn’t that the sign of true strength? Not facing death and acting like it was nothing – but instead going through something traumatizing and continuing on? 

What was it that Oliver had always called that? A crucible? This was her crucible. She can either let herself be consumed by the fire, or she can survive it and come out stronger. It really isn’t a choice. 

She moves up to give him a kiss, before rolling off of him to snuggle into her own pillow. As much as she loves Oliver, and often drools over his magnificent body, the fact that he is 100% muscle doesn’t make him a great pillow. 

“Thea thinks I should get a tattoo to cover it up,” she says, tracing over her scar. “I don’t even know what I would get.” 

“You don’t need one,” he says, moving her hand out of the way to trace the scar himself. “You’re perfect exactly as you are.” 

“You’ve always liked women with scars,” she says. “After Sara, I should have known.” 

“I like strong women who can pick themselves up and keep going even when all is lost,” he explains, carefully. Like he’s telling her something that is imperative for her to understand. She isn’t sure she does. 

“I admire any woman who survives the kind of trauma that causes a scar. That’s not the same thing as liking women with scars. I hated every single scar on her body, just as much as I hate every scar on yours. They are from experiences I’d never wish on either of you.” 

“Our scars make us who we are,” she says, tracing some of his own as she pictures how much the tragedies of his life have shaped him into the amazing man he’s become. What would Ollie Queen have become if the Gambit had never sunk? 

“Those experiences make us stronger,” she finishes, leaving a kiss over the scar that she hates most of all — the one Ra’s al Ghul gave him that fateful day on that mountain. 

“You were strong before you got these,” he says, pointing not only to the scar on her stomach, but also the nearly two-year-old bullet wound on her shoulder. 

Oliver’s always called her the strongest woman he knows, and she’s always taken it with a grain of salt. Assumed that it was just something he said to make her feel brave; to bolster her confidence. Today, however, it occurs to her that he actually believes that. Of all the powerful woman in his life — and there are so, _so_ many — he truly believes that she’s the strongest. 

“Oliver,” she whispers his name like it’s a prayer. She’s not sure how she ever got so lucky as to be gifted with him, but she will never stop being thankful. Neither of them are perfect, but they don’t need to be. They love each other and they believe in each other. Really, is anything else more important. 

“Felicity, I know that what happened today is because of this,” he says tapping her scar gently. “And that no matter what I say, it’s not going to magically fix anything until you’re ready to sort through all of this,” he says tapping her forehead gently, before allowing his hand to cradle her face, lovingly. “But I want to say something so that when you’re feeling better, you might look back on this moment and actually believe me.” 

“Okay,” she says. She’s at a loss for words. Usually she’s the one with the long speeches and the words of encouragement. It’s not that he doesn’t express himself often, it’s just not typically with words. He expresses himself through his actions. This Oliver — the one who talks so openly about his feelings — his appearances are few and far between. 

“I asked _you_ to marry me,” he says, as if it’s some sort of news to her. 

“I know,” she says, confused. 

“No.” He shakes his head. “I was convinced that no woman would be able to withstand my lifestyle. That nobody could, or _should_ , love me because of all of _my_ scars. And I’m not talking about the ones that you can see.” 

“Oli—“ 

“Since I’ve been back,” he keeps talking right over her. “I’ve dated Helena, McKenna, Sara, and whatever it was Laurel and I were doing for years.” 

“I don’t need to be reminded,” she says, trying not to picture all of those women naked in Oliver’s bed. She actively tries not to picture all of the women he’s been with in his lifetime, especially not while she’s laying in bed with him, herself. It makes her feel self-conscious and he knows that, so she’s not really sure why he’s bringing it up when she’s already had a shitty day. 

“I didn’t ask any of them to marry me.” 

“Technically, you are married to somebody,” she says as he shushes her. 

“Only in Nada Parbat,” he says quickly before continuing on with his point… and she really hopes that he has one. “I asked _you_ to marry me. Despite what you may be feeling now, you’re the woman who’s withstood all of my crap. The one who’s been with me every step of the way, pretty much since the beginning. You’ve had every right to leave, and been through so much pain because of me, but you’ve stuck by me. You’ve survived so much, and yet you’re still the most decent, kind, optimistic person that I know. You’ve never got lost behind your mask, but you do keep fighting everyday. You’re the best of all of us — that’s why I want to marry you.” 

“I feel like you’re proposing to me all over again,” she says, feeling overwhelmed by the attention he’s showering her with. 

“Well… our first proposal was in a bad neighborhood,” he says with a wink. 

It makes her laugh.

“I spilled a latte all over myself,” she jokes, gesturing at herself. 

“Really?” he asks with the same tilt of the head and suspicious gaze that she’s positive she’d given him that day they’d first met. “’Cause this look like a bullet hole.”

“I love you,” she says, giving him a long, lingering kiss. “Thanks for being my Felicity while I went all Oliver,” she adds, when she pulls away. 

“Oh,” he scoffs, rolling on top of her playfully. “Is this what taking care of me is like.” 

“Yep,” she laughs. “Except you don’t cry, you just go all Arrow until you hurt yourself and I can finally talk some sense into you.” 

“Those speeches usually work on me,” he comments. “So does that mean I made it better?” 

“A bit,” she says, knowing that even if she’s feeling much better than she had been before, she can’t promise that the problem has disappeared completely. No, this wound will take more than a single pep talk to heal. It’s a start, though. 

“Hey,” he says. “You know what we haven’t done in awhile?” 

She looks over at him, all wide eyes and goofy grin, and she knows exactly what he’s asking for. Really, it’s become a guilty pleasure for both of them. 

“I’ve been so tired, we haven’t really had a chance to, have we?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Okay,” she agrees, easily. 

****

“Wait, he regenerated?” Oliver asks, waving his hand around in confusion, narrowly missing her face. “He still looks the same, though. When nine regenerated, he became ten.” 

“Yes, but that’s not exactly what happened here,” she explains, trying to help him make sense of the episode they are watching. It’s been awhile since they’d watched the show, so she’d had to pause the episode multiple times to explain to him what was going on. 

“Ten used his regeneration energy to heal his body, but halted the actual transformation by transferring energy into his severed hand.” 

“And you complain about how complicated football is,” he teases her. 

“If I allow myself to understand it, you’re going to make me watch it more,” she responds, earning herself a pinch in the side from him. 

Watching TV together on the couch has become a guilty pleasure of theirs. One, if asked, they most certainly do not engage in. As busy adults running fortune 500 companies, running for office, and secretly fighting crime, they have more than enough responsibilities on their plate every day. With how many events and engagements they have to turn down on a weekly basis, they’ll never admit to anyone that they have time for something as frivolous as TV. 

Still, it is because of their busy lives, that they’ve started making time for watching TV together. Their busy, and at times, very public lives, mean that they don’t get to do normal things that couples do together. They don’t get to walk in the park, go to a movie, catch a show or game… but they always make time to cuddle with each other in front of the couch. On the couch, all talk of Arrow-work, business, and campaigning is banned. It is the only tradition in their lives that provides them the solace and relief that they’d had in Ivy Town. 

And it is exactly what she needs after today. She loves him for suggesting it. 

“So he’s eleven now? He just still looks like ten?” he asks. 

“No… I mean this is the doctor’s eleventh regeneration… at least that we know about at the moment… but he’s not the eleventh doctor. The eleventh doctor is Matt Smith,” she struggles to explain the story in a way that he’ll understand that won’t also give the rest of the plot away. 

“I’m so confused,” he admits. 

“I know, but I love you for trying,” she says, moving in his arms to give him a kiss. 

“It’s my turn to pick the show after this,” he says. 

“I know. You realize we’ve still got 4 more seasons before that happens, right?” 

“At the rate we’re going, I’ll be 80 before that happens.” 

“No,” she says. “We’re going to start doing this more often again.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she says. “I think this is just what I needed.” 

“Finally understanding why I was so happy in Ivy Town are you?” he teases. 

“Well, I think this is a nice compromise,” she says. 

“I agree. Though I could do without your mom being upstairs. Completely ruins my favorite part about this.” 

“Making out with me like we’re teenagers, and not two consenting adults who are allowed to have sex whenever they please?” she asks. “Because I’ll remind you, that my mother is upstairs because somebody crumbles with the use of a single emoticon.” 

“It was the one with the tear drop,” he argues with her. She’s long since forgiven him for inviting her mother to come without asking her, but she still likes to give him a hard time about it so that he knows it’s not a good idea in the future. 

“You’ve set a very bad precedent.” 

“Your mom can stay as long as she likes. I like having her around,” he says, genuinely. 

She knows they had a good relationship with each other before the shooting, but afterwards, they’ve grown exceptionally close. She still has no idea what happened between them while she was in the hospital, but it seems whatever it was, they are bonded for life. Her mom has even started trying to get Oliver to call her ‘Mom.’ 

“Well if I’m not careful, she’s going to be around for a lot longer,” she says. “I think she’s getting serious with Lance.” 

“Don’t worry, if the situation gets too dire, the Green Arrow will take care of it.” 

“My mom’s from Vegas. Nothing will scare her,” she says. 

“Well see, you two have more in common then you think.” 

“If you want to make out with me, you’ll watch your tongue,” she says with a laugh. 

“Felicity.” He’s suddenly serious. 

“Yeah?” 

“I missed your laugh,” he admits, pulling her in until she’s sitting between his legs and he can rest his chin on her shoulder. 

As they sit there cuddling on the couch, Doctor Who playing quietly in the background, the sun starts to peek out over Star City, making the buildings glitter. It’s a new day.


End file.
